The Magnificent Seven Oneshots
by JaneApricity
Summary: Oneshots of the pasts of the four fallen and stories of the continuing lives of the three survivors from the Magnificent Seven. [2016 and 1960 versions.]
1. Red Harvest- Part I

A woman stood in the camp outside of town. She was the only woman among the tents and camp-fires. And she was likely the only woman in the whole state armed with a bow and quiver of arrows.

The men might've raised some eyebrows at the sight. But since she missed every shot, they were doubled over in laughter instead.

"What d'ya think yer doin'?" One asked before taking another bite of beans.

"Practicing." Her voice was insecure. Any woman would be in the middle of that many men, surrounded by guns and approaching night-time. THUNK went the arrow. It was reassuringly sound, even if it didn't land in the middle.

"Well you sure ain't makin' babies like the good Lord planned," one man said crudely, eyes crinkling with laughter. His surrounding friends joined in, and one slapped his thigh. "Not dressin' like one either." Sure enough, the woman was dressed in a man's duster, and her skirts were split for riding.

"The good Lord also said to drink in moderation," she said. "And you're drunk as hell. And he said a man should have one wife, but I'll bet my bowler your friend in the vest is the same man outside Jenson's whore-house. Don't lecture me on what the good Lord planned for women." THUNK. "And I won't lecture you on what the good Lord planned for men."

A few more chuckled at the quick reply, but even more laughed at her next round of arrows. They all hit the target, but they were splayed out across the gunny sack of hay in every direction. The woman couldn't make a decent group for the life of her. And that's just what irked the amateur archer; her life could very well depend on her ability one day.

The evening drew on into night without her getting much better. Some men rolled up in their tents for the night, others stayed to swap yarns, and a couple continued to watch her in amusement.

"Just what is the purpose of this, ma'am?" asked one man, hat pulled over his face and boots propped on a saddle. "You're not gettin' any better. Hide behind a pistol. Maybe you can scare an injun away with the bang."

The woman sighed and lowered the bow, removing the arrow.

"If you asked any of these men how to shoot, would they deny you a lesson?" She asked. l

"S'not me that needs the lesson," a man, little more than a boy, jeered.

"S'not what I asked," she shot back. "If you asked one of these men how to shoot a bow and arrow, would they turn you away?"

"Like as not," said the boy.

"Well they denied me." THUNK. "Now who do you blame for my inadequacy?" THUNK.

"You."

The voice was not that of a white man. Sure enough, it was a native that rose from past a ruby fire. The red light danced on his face covered in- _is that blood?_ she thought frantically. But no, it was only paint.

"Me?" She asked, heart fluttering worriedly against her ribs.

"You did not ask me." The native man stepped over a sleeping cowboy, making his way towards the woman.

"You'll teach me?"

The man tapped her hand.

"Don't grip. You do not milk a cow." He uncurled her fingers. "Loose." She loosened her hand. Then the man jabbed the bow towards her. It flattened out against her palm, thumb holding it into place.

"Tha-"

"And no jerking. Draw." He made a graceful movement with his hand, sweeping it across his chest and then slowing as his fingers drew along his jawline, halting just behind the bone. "Start down, draw up."

The woman hesitated, then copied the movement, drawing the bowstring and fletching along her jaw.

"Well I'll be damned," said the man behind her. She could hear the leather of his boots rustling against the saddle leather. "The injun's teachin' her."

"Loose," demanded the native man. "Man loose one way. Man tense twenty ways. Be loose, shoot one way. Be tense, shoot twenty ways."

The woman tried to loosen all her muscles, but her arm was strained from keeping the bow in place. It used unfamiliar muscles.

"Next time," said the Indian. "Pull with back." He pressed his hand against her back. "Strength here." He pressed her arm. "Not here."

Her fingers slipped at the contact, and the arrow loosed. It landed in the gunny sack. It still wasn't where she wanted; she hadn't thought to aim. But it flew a different way.

"Again." The voice was harsh. The woman noticed that all the others had fallen silent.

She nocked an arrow and drew up the way the man had shown her, trying to fold her back in instead of yanking with her arm.

"Breath out," said the man. "Eye where you want to hit."

Elbow bent just enough that the string wouldn't scrape her skin clean off, the woman loosed her arrow. It flew straight, landing considerably closer to the center than she'd gotten all night save for flukes.

The man nodded. Then he turned to sit back in his place.

"Thank you," said the woman. Her heart was still racing, but now with the adrenaline of a pure shot instead of fear.

The man sat back down. "Make your path different," he said. "Shoot wicked men. Save good men. One way."

The woman walked off with her memories, armed to make more. And Red Harvest sat, remembering his own.


	2. How Billy Met Goodnight- Part I

Goodnight Robicheaux, legend of the south.

Running like a whipped dog, tail between his legs.

Those men couldn't whip him; the former confederate soldier was still a marksman to be reckoned with. But Goodnight didn't feel like trying.

His finger didn't feel like squeezing the trigger.

No matter how he tried to convince it.

 _I never should have left my set-up_ , he moaned to himself, mind flashing to his little arena where he collected bets on the gunfights. The men there respected him. They _feared_ him.

And they sure as hell wouldn't try to _chase_ him.

Something silver flew in front of his eyes. He stopped running instantly, boots skidding in the dust. He looked with wild eyes into the dark doorway where it had come from.

 _Where was the bang?_ he wondered. _My god, I've gone deaf to boot._

"Here," hissed a voice. "Come."

Goodnight was between a rock and a hard place. He could barely hear the angry men behind him over the hammering of his own heart. Fear blinded his peripheral vision, constricted his throat. He couldn't cry out, and he wasn't sure if he could outrun them. Defeated, he charged into the doorway.

A hand slammed into his shoulder. Goodnight went sprawling against a wall, slumping against the dusty floorboards. A figure stood in the shadows, beyond the meager moonlight coming through the doorway.

"You run?" asked the voice. It was Asian; Goodnight could tell that much.

"Seems they didn't like my way of gamblin'," said Goodnight, fighting off his panic. His voice was smooth as ever.

But talk's easy.

The men were getting closer. They were swearing like devils, calling out the "confederate coward". They didn't know how right they were. How every shot he'd taken in that war had been fear, not bravery.

Goodnight reached for his gun. He didn't want to do this. He hated doing this. But the men were rounding the corner, ready to shoot him in cold blood.

Silent. The Asian's attack didn't make a sound. The only sound was that of a man screaming. A body falling. More men shouting.

Thud thud thud.

Goodnight gaped up at the man standing in the moonlight. He was Asian alright, with long hair pulled back away from his face and wispy bits growing on his chin and lips. His eyes were still, body poised.

 _No bang_ , Goodnight thought. Then he saw the knives.

"My god," he remarked, heart suddenly calm.

The man turned to look at Robicheaux.

"No. Billy Rocks. That is my name here."

Billy watched the man he had saved, and Goodnight seized up his savior.

"I don't suppose you're lookin' for work?" Goodnight asked.


	3. Red Harvest- Part II

The woman pressed her temple against the white-washed wall, peering through the slit between the door and it's frame. The men had surrounded the barn- _her_ barn.

 _Damn them_ , she thought. _Damn them all to hell._

With a grimace, she twisted and pulled a bow and quiver off the wall. She had no bullets for the only gun in the house. The arrows would be her one salvation.

 _But I can still never shoot them all_ , she thought.

Just as Red Harvest had taught her, she nocked her arrow and drew it up to her chin. The tip just poked out of the door-frame, trained on a man in a red shirt. She loosed the arrow before her muscles had time to get tired, before she had time to think about if killing a man would really change her life forever like people had always told her.

The arrow-head sank into the man's back, and he slumped against the barn wall. His partners cried out, looking for natives.

 _My one advantage_ , she thought. She was white enough and a woman to boot; they likely wouldn't think she'd done it.

Eyes skipping over the dead man's body- think about that later, not now- the woman nocked another arrow and loosed it into the chest of a bewildered looking Mexican man. She could see the whites of his eyes growing in shock before he fell over.

 _Oh Lord have mercy on me. I have to protect myself, don't I?_ Her throat twitched as her eyes began to mist over. _Damn it! Damn it all, now how will I aim..._

She fumbled with another arrow, aware of the man growing increasingly close to the house. She nocked it, then raised it through the door. He began to run. Fingers shaking, she loosed. But the arrow hit the corner of the door, and it only sliced the man's hip. She doubted he could even feel it through his belt and jeans.

Her next arrow clattered to the floor and she backed away, hand reaching for a window-latch. The door burst open, a tan rancher standing in the opening.

Then the rancher fell on his face, arrow sprouting from between his shoulder blades.

Stomach feeling like mashed potatoes left out overnight, the woman nocked an arrow, stepping slowly into the door frame to see the archer.

The native american had an arrow nocked as well, his red-painted face unchanged from the dark night when he had taught her how to shoot.

"Four more," he said, his accented voice flat and undaunted.

"Who are you?" the woman asked, shocked. It wasn't the most useful question for the situation, but in that moment, the native was like an angel to her.

His mouth twisted down in a frown. "Red Harvest." He moved into her little cabin, looking out the door. "They come. Shoot."

Fear gave way to shock, and shock morphed into a feeling of confidence. Fingers suddenly still, the woman nocked another arrow, standing beside Red Harvest. Moments later, four more bodies were littered across her yard. A final arrow slithered to the floor.

"Better shooting," Red Harvest said, tone laced with satisfaction. There was something removed to his presence, as most white people commented of the natives, but he still had a fiery, almost hot-headed look to his eyes.

"You saved me." The woman leaned on her table, eyes dropping to the dead man in her doorway. _Bastard_.

"They want to shoot you. I know you. Not them."

Even though the man hadn't asked for an explanation, the woman felt obliged to give it.

"It's my father. Or was. He left me the farm and... they don't like the idea of a woman with this much land. Especially a half-breed like me. My mother was from Mexico, see. And there was the incident in town and... well, they were already prejudiced against me..."

"Prejudice." The word was a simple one, but the way Red Harvest said it made it sound like it was on fire in his mouth.


	4. Vasquez - Dead And Alone

Vasquez had been on the run for far too long.

Of course, he'd said the same thing when he was only sixteen and on the run for three years. But that was the life he'd chosen, and he'd stuck by it for nearly twelve years now.

He turned on his heel, shoulder-blade slamming onto the wooden slats of the door-frame. This hut was hardly any protection at all; the wood was so rotten, a bullet could plow through it like butter.

 _Dammit_ , he thought, reloading his six-gun. What he wouldn't give for a rifle, or a sawed-off shotgun. Revolvers were not his favorite.

 **CRACK!**

Another bullet spun through the air, followed by the thud of a man falling from his horse. Vasquez gave a laugh, eyes crinkling. He didn't always react that way to killing someone; only when they'd tried to kill him first.

Another horse came tearing through the trees, far enough away that Vasquez couldn't keep from firing into a trunk, but close enough that outlaw wouldn't be surprised if a bullet was fired into _him_. He swore again, backing into the shed. A fly buzzed near his head, shattering his concentration.

His boots shuffled on the floorboards, dirt scraping loudly. Would that fly _Cállate_?! The horse's hooves thundered closer, branches cracking at the weight of the beast and it's rider.

Then everything fell silent as his eyes fell on corpse propped against the wall. Vasquez swallowed, a bead of sweat tracing it's way down his temple and into his beard. But in the place of the unnamed man, Vasquez saw a woman. Wrinkles lined her dark eyes, each one outlined with blood. Rivulets dripped down her unseeing face. Vasquez had abandoned his mother's corpse, leaving it to rot against that wall. _Muerto y solo_. Dead and alone. All because Vasquez could not save her.

 _I will not end up like him, dead and alone in some shed in the woods._

Vasquez flipped the second revolver from his belt and cocked it into place with it's twin. With broad steps, he went out the door, firing both at once.

 **CRACK CRACK** _click click_ **CRACK CRACK** _click click_ **CRACK CRACK**.

 _Thud_.

Vasquez watched the rider slide sideways off his horse and into the brush.

With a smile, he spun the six-guns and slid them back into their holsters.

 _Those revolvers are my favorite_ , he thought.


	5. How Billy Met Goodnight - Part II

Goodnight Robicheaux hadn't thought of Billy Rocks for weeks. The former confederate soldier had been too busy keeping up his former legends. They were his one protection now that his finger couldn't squeeze the trigger of a gun.

It was ironic. Goodnight couldn't have used a rifle to save his life, and yet his fame with one was just what did that.

But there Billy Rocks was, forgotten or not, sitting at the bar. Or maybe he was standing... Goodnight couldn't tell. The man was about as tall either way.

"A drink," Billy repeated quietly.

"I said we don't serve your kind, Chinaman," growled the bartender. "Now scat."

Goodnight hesitated. He owed the little man his life; surely he could help him get a drink. But before he could call out to the bartender, a burly man stood up.

"This ching-chong botherin' you, Alan?" asked the man, looking from Billy to the bartender.

"They always do," Alan replied.

 _Goodnight stood up. "Now listen here gentleman," he said. "What does it hurt you to give the man a drink?"_

 _Alan and the burly man both looked at Goodnight._

 _"I don't serve Asians," Alan snapped._

 _"You do now," said Goodnight serenely._

 _"Who are you to tell me who I do and don't serve?" demanded the bartender._

 _"Goodnight Robicheaux, at your service."_

 _"So sorry sir!" said the bartender, eyes wide. "I didn't realize. I'll pour 'im a drink right off..."_

The scene that played out in Goodnight's mind was a lot different from the one in real life.

Another man stood up. Yelling started. Billy was lost among the tall, muscular bodies. Then the tall, muscular bodies all fell away, leaving one, small Asian man holding knives in their place.

 _My god_ , thought Goodnight. _He's a devil in man's clothing._

Threat gone, Goodnight found himself able to stand. Coward. He walked up to the bar, reached over it, and took out a bottle and two glasses.

"Well done," said Goodnight, pouring Billy a glass of whiskey.

The man was silent, looking down at the blood-spattered bodies at his feet. All of them. It was impossible. Goodnight remembered battles with less bloodshed.

"Prejudice," Billy muttered, taking the glass.

"Tricky to navigate," Goodnight said in agreement, lifting his own whiskey. "But I could help."

"You? Help me?" Billy looked up, strangely-shaped eyes intent.

"I'm not so useless as I was that one night. I've got a reputation, if nothin' else." Goodnight found himself bothered by Billy's disbelief in him.

"Navigate the white man's prejudice," Billy echoed, taking a drink. "Why?"

"Because you are someone to befriend," Goodnight said, looking down at the bodies at his feet. Like the people he'd shot. Like the person he could've been. The people who would be if he could pull. The damn. _Trigger_.

He mentally shook away his thoughts, looking back at Billy.

Who was watching him very, very closely.

Then Billy nodded. "Agreed."

Goodnight couldn't help but wonder what the man had seen in his eyes. The terror? The cowardice? The fear? The voices that were always screaming, begging to not be shot, consumed by the fires of war?

And looking at the bodies on the ground, so easily laid low, Goodnight couldn't help but wonder if Billy heard them too.


	6. Pia Mupitsi

Goodnight Robicheaux leaned his head against the knotted wooden planks behind him, chair creaking angrily under his weight. He could barely hear it over the sound of his breath, wheezing like an old man's.

A half smile started, lips trembling, before sinking back into a grimace.

Sweat rolled down his cheek. Blood. Oh lord, there's so much blood on him.

A weight. Bodies. A body. Just a boy, eyes blank. Probably a farmer. Not a fighter.

Except it wasn't the body of a young rebel soldier. It was the hand of Red Harvest, the man's dark face very close to Robicheaux's.

"What's that, there?" Goodnight asked, trying to keep his voice level and a smile on his face. "If you said somethin', I didn't quite make it out."

Red Harvest only looked at him.

"You got somethin' to say, boy?" Goodnight asked. His shoulder hurt under the pressure of Red Harvest's hand.

"Owl."

Oh lord.

"An owl," said Goodnight, deadpanned. Deadpan was easy. So much easier than keeping up a laugh every day. Goodnight used to laugh every day, and he'd make all the people around him laugh too. Now only one person kept his laugh constant, but Billy was gone with Faraday to inspect more buildings.

"Pia Mupitsi," said Red Harvest.

"What now?" Goodnight's brows drew together. He could feel his panic attack sliding away. Lord he hated those.

"Pia Mupitsi. Big owl. Pia Mupitsi eats children who act like evil men."

Goodnight's throat closed up. His hands were trembling in his lap, a bead of sweat sliding down his cheek. His shoulder was aching.

"D'you think I was talkin' about your Pia Mupitsi?" Goodnight asked.

Red Harvest was silent for a moment before replying.

"I think if you did, you would not be so scared."

With that, Red Harvest lifted his hand and walked away.

 _Pia Mupitsi_ , Goodnight thought. _I've got my own evil-devourin' owl._

He looked down at his trembling hands.

 _Well Pia. You won this fight._

He stood to saddle his horse and apologize to Billy.


	7. Red Harvest- Part III

"Well... yes, him too," the woman said with a frown. "All of these men work for the man who runs the general store, actually. They make his deliveries from the other towns and such."

"He wants your land."

"Everyone wants my land," she said with a bitter laugh. "Life'd be easier if I'd just sell it."

The woman looked around at the land. She looked at the little farm house where she'd been born, and the farm where she'd worked all her life. She looked at the barn where she and her little brother would play before the Lord took him too. She ought to just sell the place. But she couldn't bear the thought of this patch of earth in the hands of that Turner man.

 _Sentimentality will be my death_ , she thought.

"You fight for this land," Red Harvest said. "My path is to fight for land." He began to walk away.

The woman blinked. Then she took a few steps after him. "Your path is to fight for land? But this land isn't even yours!"

"Evil men want what other people have. It is my path to stop them. This time, I do it alone," said the native man. "I stop store man."

"You can't just kill him," the woman protested.

"He kill you."

"I... I suppose he would. How could such a man exist?" She didn't like that thought. Rather than ponder it, she nudged the body of the man in front of her with the toe of her boot. His head gave way easily to the pressure, lolling to the side unnaturally.

"Such men always exist," Red Harvest said. "Bogue. Travers. Store man."

"Live for, live by, kill for, kill on. That's what my mom used to say about land."

Red Harvest appeared to be done with her philosophical musings. He stepped over the body and out the door.

 _Oh lord_. The woman's eye flew wide. _He's actually going to kill Mr. Cann._

She moved after him, shouldering her quiver of arrows and pausing to remove one from a body as the native man entered her barn.

"How will you do it? Kill Mr. Cann? The whole town could very well turn on you."

"You asked him to stop?"

"Yessir," she said. "He's a bit determined."

"Then I shoot him."

The woman paused, looking at the hot-headed young man.

"And if I hadn't asked him? Would you have stabbed him instead?"

"I ask him."

The woman was smiling to herself as they continued walking towards the town.

"How did you know I needed your help anyways? Surely you haven't been following me all these months." She remembered stories her father used to tell about the "injuns" watching white folk by spying through the eyes of the animals. He loved telling stories about the supernatural and superstitious.

"My family is in the town," Red Harvest said. "I wanted to hunt. The woods took me here."

"How coincidental. And lucky, for me."

"My path."

She studied him. He had a bold profile, full of angular edges and flat tones. But his eyes were sharp and showed how strongly he seemed to feel about things, even if his mouth rarely moved.

He had noticed the important things. He noticed that she needed help with archery, not that she ought to not be doing it in the first place. He noticed that she needed help in that moment, not that she was helpless. He didn't notice her split skirts or lack of husband, but he did notice that she was a land-owner and being hounded by an evil man.

She wondered what people noticed about him. Did they notice the temper behind the serene face? Did they notice the reason behind his killings? Did they notice the man behind the native, as he had noticed the human behind a girl?


	8. Billy Rocks x Reader

You slide the glass down the bar, watching the golden brown liquid splash around inside. It comes to a stop in the greasy paw of a very big man with a leering grin that you don't like at all.

"Drink up, Thomas," you tell him, trying to keep your voice conversational instead of alluring. It was a late Friday night, and you wanted him gone.

Thomas threw back his head, swallowing the drink in one go. "Thanks, darling," he said, slamming the glass back down on the counter.

 _Do they think that impresses us?_ you wonder to yourself as you take back the glass.

"So..." he said, voice slurring slightly. "Whaddya say I buy the next drink for you?" He drummed his thick fingers on the wooden countertop, eyes definitely not on your face.

"No thanks, Thomas."

Thomas frowned.

"I want to buy you a drink," he repeats.

"Not interested in a drink or you," you say, wiping down the counter.

Thomas snatches your wrist. "I wanna buy your damn drink!" he insists.

"Thomas, you let go of me _right this instant_."

Thomas yanks hard on your wrist, pulling you up enough that you're now half-lying on the counter. You try to roll over and get back to safety, but he grabs your hair.

"We's the only ones in here, darling," he hisses. "Why don't you just say yes and let me buy you a dri-"

Thomas stops. He frowns, and then his eyes widen. You yank back your wrist and drive your palm up into his nose, scrambling back. Blood spurts out of his face and across the counter. Thomas turns, and you see more blood coming out of his back. A single knife handle protrudes from his lower back.

"You're not the only ones in here," says an unfamiliar voice. You look past Thomas where an asian man is standing, another knife in his gloved hands.

Thomas falls to the floor with a jangle of spurs and thud of leather.

You let out a breath, leaning into the cabinets of glasses behind you.

"Thank you," you say to the man. "Thank you... very much."

The man nods, eyes on Thomas before flitting up to meet yours.

"Er... what's your name? Can I get you a drink?" You would offer anything to the man who may have saved you from something very nasty indeed.

"Billy Rocks," he says, walking across the saloon slowly, as though not to frighten her. "And I would love one."

You smile. Now this was a good way to spend a late Friday night.


	9. Red Harvest x Reader

As requested by the girl from Wattpad with an unfortunately forgettable username.

* * *

"That Indian looks outa place, don't he, Miss?" said Trevor. Trevor was generally a nice kid. He'd run messages for you over town for some penny candy.

"He does," you say. "He could use a welcome." You move around the counter to greet him.

"That ain't what I meant!" hissed the boy. "I meant he don't belong!"

You were aware of what Trevor meant, but you didn't intend on paying him any mind.

"Welcome to the goods store," you say to the Native American. He looked at you, and you wondered if maybe you should be intimidated after all. He IS big. And strong too. You find yourself wondering who those hands might have killed.

He nods at you after a long moment of studying your face. You can feel your cheeks go hot.

"Er... do you have a name, sir?" you ask. Someone comes into the shop behind you, but you ignore them for the time being, afraid of disrespecting the man in front of you.

"I am Red Harvest," he says in a deep voice. Then he turns back to a shelf he's looking at. You don't even see the merchandise; your eyes are locked on Red Harvest.

"I'm-"

"Miss!" says a grating voice from behind you. "I need your help."

You turn to see Mrs. Tews, a lady you've known all your life. She's motioning frantically, offering a way away from the dangerous injun in your store.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Tews. I'm helping Red Harvest," you say.

Her jaw all but drops.

When you turn, he's looking at you with sharp eyes. Everything about him is sharp. His jaw, his hairline, the arrows he's probably killes with...

"You want to help me?" His voice is quiet. He looks past you at Mrs. Tews, judging the situation.

"You were here first." Are your cheeks as red as they feel?

He looks back down at you, then asks, "What color?"

With a start, you look at the shelf and find it's the one with all the ribbons. You wonder what on earth he wants ribbons for. Decorate a horse mane? Hang with feathers from his hair? You can't even imagine, and you have no facts; only stories told in saloons after too many drinks.

"This one looks good with nearly everything," you say, lightly laying a finger on a red ribbon, thinking of his name.

Red Harvest nods and takes the small spool. "One," he says.

You take the ribbon slowly and bring it to the counter, cutting off a decent length. Before you can wonder if the Native can pay, he sets down the money. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment at your assumptions, you pass the ribbon to him, laying the smooth fabric in his rough hands.

You put the money in the register, but when you straighten, you're surprised to find Red Harvest still standing there.

"Do yo- oh."

He hands the ribbon to you.

You take it gently, then watch the large man walk out of the shop and vanish from view.

"Well I never!" breathed Mrs. Tews. Trevor swore, and the lady cuffed the back of his head.

You dart around the counter and look out the shop window, but Red Harvest is no where in sight.

Whenever you see the color red, you remember the Native American in your shop who bought you a ribbon as red as your blush, as red as his name, and as red as your feelings long after he'd vanished.


	10. Red Harvest x Reader 2

_This one has been much-requested, so I bumped it in the queue. Next up is a Billy Rocks x OC, a oneshot for my much-neglected Jack Horne, and then a guest appearance by Steve McQueen and Yul Brenner while I go back to the 1960 movie!_

Time passes, as it always does. People give birth, people bury the dead, people go to sleep then wake up to work.

But your life hasn't quite been the same, pass though it may.

For one thing, people began to whisper about the Injun's girl. The girl with the red ribbon. The whispers die down as the time goes on, of course, but you never minded them. You always hoped he would return and prove them right.

You want to talk to him. You want to explain why you were afraid, but why fears and legends didn't stop you from treating him like any other customer. You want to really see HIM, not just his hairline or his clothing or his paint.

Bit just as time passes, so life settles down and routine resumes. You still wear the ribbon, if as nothing more than a reminder of the strange day, but you no longer jump each time your doorstep is darkened by a large form. And, as though he was waiting for just that moment, Red Harvest enters the shop. You know as soon as the door is pushed open but is followed by a soft padding in the place of a boot's thud and clank.

You turn, breath caught in your throat.

"Red Harvest."

The man's face cracks a grin-a strange sight to you.

"You remember me."

Your fingers drift to your braid, tied with the red ribbon. "I couldn't forget." Suddenly, you feel sort of silly for putting so much thought and time into a simple gesture. But why would he have bought nothing else that time? Now that Red Harvest is here in front of you, you begin to second-guess the gossip that became second-nature.

Red Harvest holds out a hand.

"Can I?"

You don't know what he's asking. Does he want to buy something? To have the ribbon back? Everything feels ridiculous and disjointed. You simply nod.

Red Harvest touches your braid. He feels the ribbon, before his fingers drift up. Then they're on your jaw, on your chin. You watch one another. You're far from scared this time, and he seems to be only concerned with not offending you. With a surreal feeling, you touch your fingertips to the back of his hand. You're standing so-very close now.

"Can I?" he asks again, lowering his face slightly.

"Yes," you reply.

And then he kisses you. A short kiss. A simple kiss. But one that's flaming red. He pulls back to see your grin, and there's a smile tugging at his lips in turn.

"Thank you," he says. The words would feel out of place, but nothing is quite normal now. And you have the feeling that nothing will be normal for you again.


End file.
